


the cut that always bleeds.

by orphan_account



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Angst with no happy ending, Awkward Crush, Awkward Flirting, Crushes, It's All Just Angst Really, M/M, Manga Spoilers(?), Pining, Possibly Unrequited Love, Side Kita Shinsuke/Atsumu Miya, Unrequited Crush, brief descriptions of anxiety, but it's unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:07:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23926645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Wary of such failure, he swore to himself (and his brother, who spent the entirety of the evening brushing a soothing palm over his shoulder and muttering that he, most certainly, told him so) that he’d never cause such asinine mistakes again. Atsumu believed that digressing from the obscure and indecipherable category that Kita Shinsuke fell into would be a start; someone who was more of an open book rather than a sacred and secure encyclopedia clasped shut by a lock with no key, (not one he held, anyways). Someone who didn’t step through each reoccurring day by precisely following fifteen (plus) stepped rituals, someone who kept things without a speck of dust.And so, he falls for Sakusa Kiyoomi instead.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu & Sakusa Kiyoomi, Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 4
Kudos: 104





	the cut that always bleeds.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are highly appreciated.
> 
> this is also inspired by:  
> \- https://twitter.com/rarazsho/status/1252139667308163072?s=20  
> \- https://twitter.com/dcisuga/status/1243694326120660994?s=20  
> \- https://twitter.com/newttxt/status/1251492247826137088?s=20  
> \- https://twitter.com/LHOOQ_/status/1252691095072305152?s=20
> 
> and there are a whole ton more of tweets but i can't source them.
> 
> i hope you enjoy it.

Miya Atsumu had latterly celebrated his seventeenth birthday (courtesy of Osamu) when he gathered a decent sum of discreet courage woven into the threads of his massive ego to confess to his team captain. 

Kita Shinsuke was an honor student. It was safe to believe that the spirit of an elderly man had been encased in a teenager’s physique as a vessel. Exceptional grades, quintessential routines and exemplary disposition; not a strand of hair was left astray on the top of Kita’s head. He was flawless.

Atsumu? Far from it.

The blond one of the twins, Atsumu had a personality equivalent to swallowing an entire glass of sewage water, or perhaps the same as rubbing cleaning alcohol on an open wound (the searing sensation). He despised it at times in which supporters cheered during serves, and wouldn’t dare think of how a single lock of hair would vitiate his focal view while positioning calloused palms for setting.

In short, he’s a natural born asshole.

He should’ve figured that fixating on a ‘crush’ centric to his senior would simply result in tears, that love had maintained its label of caution for him from previous situations, that he had truly had known the individual for three hundred and sixty… four(?) days at the bare maximum. 

It wasn’t a long enough duration to truly fall for someone, was it? 

Someone he knew basic level information from observing and eavesdropping information about from afar, anyways. 

His brother lectured him otherwise, saying how often his gut would be wrong, but there was a singular butterfly in his stomach. Not one that signified relent, no. But one that signified the sensation of alteration. It was only to mean that he was correct in thinking that Kita were to feel the same back, is it not? Should he have pondered longer? Should he have retained more information centered around the captain’s favoured boba? Or what his grandmother did occupationally? Should he have taken those chances to query on Kita’s parental figures, even though he suppressed the desire to do so?

Kita’s favoured boba tea flavour was chocolate. He consistently requested his boba with quarter sugar rather than an increasingly (sickening) substantial amount; it was never more, never less. Barring his grandmother that resided with him, Shinsuke lived alone. 

(It’s salient to note that Atsumu would query on his parents, but some topics are most likely best kept ‘under wraps,’ so to speak. Even an individual as inquisitive as him knew that there remained a thin border of things to either lightly hint on, or leave to the depths of his imagination. He wondered if Shinsuke thought about him too. He pondered on the plausibility that. 

At times when it downpoured, Shinsuke owned a crimson-tinted umbrella marked with a fox design that he used to trek home in, and his house didn’t stray too far from Inarizaki’s campus. 

Atsumu had memorised that much.

Perhaps Atsumu will, one day or another, manage to untangle the knotted yarn that is labelled his mind and set it straight as a line, rather than a mess it had been the extent of his life.

―

Kita Shinsuke didn’t reciprocate such warm-hearted feelings as simple as a thumb and an index could snap pads together, but he did, in fact, reciprocate said feelings to one male on his team. He feared such a parasite, such a thought and name that plagued his internal thoughts to the apex of tears. No, he acknowledged Atsumu’s fawning, so processes would never ponder on the feasibility that said affections wouldn’t be returned, but it was more that he and Atsumu were an incompatible pair.

Miya Atsumu envisioned delving into more vicious leagues; the Japan - wide popular V-League, to specify.  
Only soughting for media and flattery, he wasn’t fit for living in rural areas of Kansai. Moreso, he wasn’t fit for being kept to an individual only; Kita’s affections would be worthless compared to media news stories and live television.

Miya relished off fuel; the attention. He practically overfilled himself until it gushed from his system.

Kita knew better than anyone that the last person suitable for somebody kindred to Miya was, of course, himself.

―

A scene is captured from the view of his caring _(quote unquote)_ twin brother, Osamu. _If you’re so set on it, you could just ask him yourself, you know;_ Osamu had previously suggested. He sounded more agitated than a brother that cared to provide aid and advice for his currently hysterical sibling.

From our position in the perspective of the older (by a mere two minutes), Atsumu before our view raises from his position; head bowed, previously somewhat neat hair suddenly unkempt. He’s become the personification of a garbage heap, dried tears causing visible traces to be seen once light reflects itself off pale skin.

_But that would be weird._

_Then just don’t. You’ll find other people when you grow older._

_No. If I say I'll confess to Kita, then I'll confess, even if it’s the last thing I do._

An audible sigh passes through parted tiers, view shaking from side to side.

_Don’t come running to me when he doesn’t feel the same way and I’ll say I told you so._

―

Miya Atsumu had latterly celebrated his seventeenth birthday when his heart was shattered and ripped in two by his team captain; Kita Shinsuke. It was sheer mortification, truly; he should’ve taken notice of the polite tone of rejection raising over the horizon anyhow. But, as per usual, Miya filtered it out and the feeling remained ignored, even so when it prodded at his abdomen more distressing than comfortably.

Wary of such failure, he swore to himself (and his brother, who spent the entirety of the evening brushing a soothing palm over his shoulder and muttering that he, most certainly, told him so) that he’d never cause such asinine mistakes again. Atsumu believed that digressing from the obscure and indecipherable category that Kita Shinsuke fell into would be a start; someone who was more of an open book rather than a sacred and secure encyclopedia clasped shut by a lock with no key, (not one he held, anyways). Someone who didn’t step through each reoccurring day by precisely following fifteen (plus) stepped rituals, someone who kept things without a speck of dust.

Atsumu didn’t mind how Kita crowned him Inarizaki’s following captain once the third years graduated.

He also didn’t mind how he allowed himself to embrace Kita at graduation either, or how he let himself cherish in the tsubaki scent of Shinsuke’s strands, or the way their bodies fit together; the way Kita radiated his own heat that wasn’t one of a radiator, but not too cold of a winter’s temperature.

The only thing minded was how Atsumu succeeded in detecting evidence of his previous captain in _everything,_ even when the gym remained empty from a harsh day’s training. Timber orbs would trace sooted footsteps of school-issued shoes towards the equipment room, calloused palms instantaneously beginning to tremble. Kita Shinsuke was still in that room, both legs crossed with a volleyball placed in the space between. One small hand occupied the job of stabilising the ball, while the other smoothed a wet cloth over the material; fox-like optics blinked once, twice, three times, whilst peering up at the other.

Consistency, repetition, care.

_You do this after every training, don’t ‘ya, Kita-san? ___

_I do. It makes me feel good to do things like this._

__Miya tugged the sliding door to the left._ _

__The previously used volleyballs lingered in the wheeled storage basket; untouched, soiled, unwashed. Against the concrete floor sat no one._ _

___Perhaps, it’s time to move on._ _ _

__

__-_ _

__

__Immediately, upon joining the MSBY Black Jackals, honey dripped orbs were unable to counter the act of simply glancing around. An influx of familiar individuals lit a lightbulb in Atsumu’s headspace; ginger locks instantly gathered the image of Hinata Shouyou, while an over exaggerated personality revealed Bokuto Koutarou._ _

__Although his view soon gravitated towards another individual in particular._ _

__Curls slicked on one side, and pupils equivalent to a winter’s night sky; ‘Sakusa Kiyoomi’ was someone he didn’t know. But most definitely wanted to. Worth a try, was it not? A shot in the dark, at least. A brow raised, smirk tilting to a slant on his somewhat flawless features._ _

__“Have we met before?”_ _

__Needless to say, the displeased furrow of brows and squint of said pupils revealed that his attempts worked otherwise. In fact, it merely combed through swept locks, gaining assistance from his ego to suppress such ignominy._ _

__“All-Japan Youth Training Camp. Itachiyama.”_ _

_Treasury._  
‘Sakusa Kiyoomi’ graced ears with a pleasurable tone of voice. Although he had snapped back, fangs bared with a hiss and black holes glazed with a luster of agitation, Miya was only able to ponder just how placid this player’s voice could come to be. 

_Right. Itachiyama. Youth Training Camp._

__Ah. How could Miya ever let the _god awful_ Itachiyama uniform slip from his mind? The yellow and lime _atrocity_ of a rain jacket that constantly clung at Kiyoomi’s shoulders. It truly was one of the only things Miya had managed to keep in the confines of his memories from _that_ camp. All other petty details remained a blur._ _

__But he _did_ know (apparent) ‘Sakusa Kiyoomi.’ It’s a good start, for sure. Keeping his eyes on the bright side, of course. Perhaps he should tone down a portion of the flirting. Being charmed isn’t content for everyone; Atsumu regards it the most he possibly can._ _

__“Saw online that ‘yer… Er...”_ _

_Don’t let the accent fuck this up._

__“Yer… Er… Kiyoomi, ain’t y―.”_ _

“ _Sakusa._ Yes. I am.” 

__Atsumu consecutively held the badge of being one of the exceedingly irritating people in all of Japan; Hell, in the entirety of planet Earth. There was a nudge in his side that indicated this award will only come to use in growing somewhat of a bond between _Sakusa_ and himself. _ _

__As if his ego constructed since first-year of high school had been so suddenly trampled on, the setter stifled an abashed chuckle, complimented by a rub of his nape; ribs tightened, and blunt nails began to toy at the skin of fingertips. Atsumu had deemed such odd palpitations as nothing but mere stress. Indeed, he traced his fingertips against Sakusa’s pale profile in his mind, but it wasn’t as if it was something deeper than a mere crush._ _

__A crush is _harmless,_ is it not?_ _

__“I’m just gonna’ call ‘ya Omi. Like… From Kiy―.”_ _

_“ _Don’t_ even think you can say my given name.”_

__“Right… M’ Atsumu, by the way.”  
Both of _’Omi’s’_ orbs thinned to a squint, eyebrows meeting together with a displeased look, yet again. Atsumu hadn’t yet seen him sneak a smile at least _once_ since they’ve begun tryouts for the Musubi Black Jackals._ _

__“‘Ya probably already know from high school n’ all though.”_ _

__In fact, _the entire being_ of Sakusa Kiyoomi rubbed Miya the wrong way.  
Atsumu recalls observing said male tread into the gym space, a surgical mask concealing his nose and onwards, dainty pieces of material curled around the shells of both of Kiyoomi’s ears. And once he had subsequently lowered his bag onto the wooden floor as if his life had depended on it, his hand had unzipped a side pocket to raise a bottled liquid; the cap had soon after been flicked open and smeared into the crevices of pale palms.  
Sanitizer? Lotion? Perhaps Sakusa was diagnosed with a skin condition? Miya wouldn’t pry. Not yet, at least. _ _

__Not to pinpoint Kiyoomi’s blunt and obscene demeanour. Or the way he stands, more reserved and introverted than others. Maybe he’s merely self-conscious? Self-conscious people act that way, do they not?_ _

_Atsumu would be the last person who’d know._

_“Unfortunately, I do, _Miya._ " _

__

__

__

__-_ _

__

__A harmless distance had consecutively remained between pro volleyball members Sakusa Kiyoomi and Miya Atsumu during both training sessions, as well as their occasional matches. It was simple enough; Atsumu was the setter, Kiyoomi was an outside hitter. Miya conventionally offered his share of teases and (so called) name calling to Sakusa, while Sakusa reciprocated with mocking gestures and glares of (most _definitely_ ) pure hatred. On the occasion of which a match of theirs was won, captain Meian would propose that they all head to a bar and rejoice, Asahi and whiskey glasses in hand. _(It’s important to note that Sakusa would perpetually return to his quarters once it was often tossed onto the table, Atsumu wouldn’t query)._ And once the moon crawled over the horizon, they would mock one another at training, and the cycle repeated._ _

_Over_ and _over_ and _over again_.  
A vicious cycle in which all members lingered, constrained with strict barriers between each other. They were not classed as ‘friends,’ but teammates. Nothing more than that. 

__Although, Miya’s situation had improved in which he had managed to retrieve an influx of information about Sakusa from news sites, articles, but primarily from simply observing and studying from their six meter (plus) distance away._ _

Sakusa Kiyoomi was a germaphobe. (Or was it _myso_ phobe? Atsumu fails to recall, and he surely hopes Kiyoomi wouldn’t despise him more for muttering the incorrect phobia in his mind). He cherishes the period they have after both training and matches to put the third shower (from the left wall) of the locker room to use before anyone else can taint it. He had also learnt that Sakusa seldom drinks alcohol. Atsumu remembers overhearing that the taste isn’t to his standards; it makes him ‘speak his mind’ more so than usual. His favoured brand of sanitizer was biore, and he scrubbed each palm twice whenever he was to. He was double-jointed, and bends his wrists _more frequently_ than Miya would like. 

__(But Atsumu thinks it’s admirable; he only allows his mind to wander with what those _disgusting_ wrists of Omi’s could do with such flexibility when he’s without company.)_ _

__And whenever he spiked, his back twisted into perfect form._ _

__Everything was at the state of a mixture between satisfactory and distressing for Miya Atsumu.  
Accomplishing his dream once and for all of becoming a pro-volleyball player, the lifestyle currently lived should’ve been fine; he should be content and thriving. There’s not a single fragment of his life that was in the depths of ‘awful’. _ _

_Oi. ‘Samu._

_Whadda’ya want, asshole._

_I think I got a crush on someone._

__Although, the stringent grip of reality accompanied by the tsunami of emotions had managed to conspire and join forces in both filling his lungs with water and tugging him further under the wave._ _

__He pondered on the chance that Sakusa had been doing the same thing, at the same time, as if they were cinematic parallels. Did Kiyoomi take note of the small things Atsumu contributed to? Did he gain that pang of anxiety each time they conversed? Or each time they were caught glancing at one another?_ _

_’Tsumu._

_Don’t tell me. I don’t wanna’ hear that sorta’ stuff, ‘kay?_

_... This’ll end up just like how Kita did, and you know it._

__

__-_ _

__

__Sanitized palms rub over an exhausted profile._ _

__Sakusa Kiyoomi is a mysophobe. (Germaphobes and mysophobes are the same thing. Anyone would know.) He treks through ten step (plus) routines in order to protect himself from germs and bacteria alike. There remain no traces of dust mites or tainted surfaces in the abode of his empty apartment, in which the majority of the open space is often filled by the presence of himself._ _

__He’s cautious, tidy and always speaks his piece of mind._ _

__Atsumu isn’t either of those selective adjectives. Sure, he often told his teammates during younger ages that if they were unable to hit his tosses, they were nothing but scrubs, but his team now was _loaded_ with nothing but heavy artillery. _ _

As one would say, _a banquet of monsters._

__Sakusa had maintained a satisfactory life status upon entering the gym for the MSBY Black Jackals tryout session. He had spent the majority of his high school years partaking in the sport that was volleyball, and became one of the well known names in many academy communities, as well as in high school volleyball magazines. It was an overstatement to affirm this as fame. It was nothing, really. Merely because you can spike a ball well, doesn’t mean you belong on the pedestal beside actresses and television personalities._ _

__All was well, until a recognisable profile came to view the night before said tryouts, a smug grin causing blue light to entrap him._ _

_Miya Atsumu._

That _asshole_ was difficult to dismiss from the All-Japan Youth Training Camp. All he truly participated in was throwing everyone off with his extensive ego and providing (unfortunately) talented sets. Not to mention the awful atrocious blond atop his head. 

__Kiyoomi is merely glad and offers his regards to whoever convinced him to dye it a lighter shade._ _

__

__-_ _

__

__[23:03] hey omi._ _

__[23:05] why are you texting me at fucking eleven at night._ _

__[23:09] cause i just wanted to talk. is that bad? ya know. we’ve been friends for some time now so i just kinda wanted to check up on ya since ya left early when we went to get drinks._ _

__[23:12] we aren’t friends._ _

__[23:14] cmon. quit actin like that already._ _

__[23:19] i’m fine._ _

__[23:22] maybe we could go out together some time? you don’t gotta be round the whole team. we can go wherever ya like._ _

__[23:26] no._ _

__[23:29] cmon._ _

__[23:32] fine. i’ll think about it._ _

__

__-_ _

__

__Miya Atsumu is a hopeless romantic. He most likely should’ve discovered so when he pined after his captain in high school for the entirety of a year, and got so fatefully rejected in such a polite tone that he swore he’d never fall for a boy as similar to said captain again._ _

__Not one with set routines.  
Not one who was complicated to read.  
Not one who didn’t show nearly as much interest in return._ _

___I kinda asked ‘im for a date. Well, ‘ya know… I didn’t specify it’s a date but I said we could just go out together without the team n’ all._ _ _

__Sakusa Kiyoomi scrubs both hands twice after dirtying them, and cleans his furniture and personal items another two just to be sure. Although, Atsumu turns a blind eye to such rituals. It’s nothing if not perfect for him; someone whose home is equivalent to a sewage system, with a personality far worse, and all he can merely do once more is spend the stretch of his remaining life span pining after a mysophobe who displays only nothing but contempt and distaste towards him._ _

__Hopefully, it’d be the singular moment in which Atsumu is able to laugh right in Osamu’s face that he was right for once (because _believe it or not,_ it’s a difficult thing for him to be right)._ _

__

__-_ _

__

__[11:56] i’m really glad you changed that hair colour of yours. it looked fucking awful before._ _

__[12:01] jeez, omi. yer sayin you like my hair? or do ya just always tell people their hair in high school looked like shit?_ _

__[12:03] it’s fine now i guess. and no, i don’t go around telling people their hair in high school looked like shit._ _

__[12:06] ya really know how to make a guy feel special, don’t ya?_ _

__[12:09] fuck off._ _

__

__-_ _

__

__Sakusa Kiyoomi should simply attempt to confess. He’s wrapped his head around the (quite astounding) idea that the pain in his abdomen and repetitive thoughts of a certain blond setter isn’t merely just his intense despise, but something that he eventually needs to come to terms with, otherwise it’ll affect every point he is yet to spike in the near future. Confessions were overpriced. People need to learn that confessions don’t require love letters or tears. As far as Sakusa is knowledged, his ideal plan is to straightforwardly admit to (the) Miya Atsumu that he has feelings for him, and continue the day as per usual. Miya is most likely too dense to understand it either way._ _

__Although, it’ll have to be after an away match against the Eastern Japan Paper Mills Raijin. They’ve versed one another before, so Sakusa expects it to finish early based on the results from the previous confrontation._ _

__And someway, somehow, he configures his entire confession while sport shoes squeak against a foreign gym flooring, a crowd flooded behind, side, and to the front of both teams. Sweat rides at the tips of Kiyoomi’s curls, fingertips grooming through them and wiping skin to jersey in a method of somewhat cleansing his damp palm._ _

__From a view at the apex of the stadium, we can view the scoreboard as being generous towards the Black Jackals; as calculated previously, the MSBY Black Jackals had managed to continue their winning strike against EJP Raijin._ _

__There would be another request for Sakusa to join them at some shitty, cheap bar nearby for Asahis, as per usual, in which he’d decline._ _

__As he straightened himself up, a discreet wave of warmth passed from head to toe as he singled out Komori as one amongst the crowd; a broad smile graced upon his features, both hands waving as if he hadn’t been familiar enough for Kiyoomi to notice._ _

__“Kita-san!”_ _

__A sudden shout causes him to tilt his head in the direction of the source.  
Atsumu is practically bounding as if an obedient dog would to a face who seemed to be hazed in the rear of Sakusa’s memory. Blanched locks falling into pitch tips grasped Kiyoomi’s attention as if he were to be in a trance. _Hypnotic.__ _

__He observed as both Atsumu and (apparent) ‘Kita-san’ embraced. Perhaps Kita didn’t give one care in the world for sweat on flawlessly ironed and disinfected clothes. He observed as ‘Kita’ handed him a plastic bottle, and how Miya swiped it as if he hadn’t had his own one abiding by the bench._ _

__He observed as the pair laughed at something inaudible, and watched a red heat rise to Atsumu’s cheeks._ _

___Oh._ _ _

__Maybe it’s time to move on._ _

__

__-_ _

__

__[22:07] hey omi  
read 22:08pm._ _


End file.
